


Fake Flowers

by lenasorensen



Category: GOT7
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Some unrequited love, bambam's a bit ooc, hello surprise mark is a fuckboy, lots of lying, love triangles are my weaknesses, some drinking involved too, some implicit smut?, still a bit fluffy tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 08:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17056781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenasorensen/pseuds/lenasorensen
Summary: Mark and Jinyoung practically lived the same kind of life; except it wasn’t the same shade of monochrome.They became each other’s ground-breaker, in their own ways.





	1. To break a monotony

**Author's Note:**

> shit recently happened irl, so i wanted to vent a bit :)  
> i hope you still find some entertaining value in this piece of crap
> 
> i had x ambassadors' "low life" on repeat, if you want anything to listen to
> 
> i apologize in advance for bambam's extreme ooc-ness, i swear that's not how i picture him at all
> 
> i do not own got7
> 
> enjoy

The first time Jinyoung had known about Mark, he had been reduced to the size of a faceless word.

 

It was near-permanently sealed to Bambam’s palate, emerged in topics his friend never ceased to bring up without fail, if not directly then somehow finding itself wedged between pieces of conversation. Mark was a bracket, a _by the way_ , a _did you know_ , ultimately a hot news feed.

 

But who on Earth was Mark Tuan?

 

Jinyoung personally had no idea, and essentially didn’t find a sliver of a damn to give. But he had been Bambam’s best friend since they crawled out of their mothers and had learned the hard way that Bambam did not spare a detail of his life to Jinyoung’s oblivion, even those undesired graphic elements composing his sex life. _Especially those_. Jinyoung shuddered everytime he thought of it.

 

They weaved a thorough friendship that had flourished from a sincere ground, both of them being impaired by either bluntness or snark. Jinyoung knew every nuts and bolts that made for Bambam’s character like the alphabet, read him like an open book.

 

That, in turn, helped him scrutinize Bambam’s inevitable shortcomings.

 

He tended to be more of the nothing-will-ever-get-between-me-and-my-happiness nature, stubborn and borderline selfish. It made Jinyoung feel like their friendship mattered very little next to the things that his friend desired.

 

He had a physicality complex, being ten times thinner than Jinyoung caused him to lose some of the attention. And Bambam thrived in the thick of other people’s gazes. The more, the better.

 

This generated his untamable taste for possessiveness. Bambam never really shared without a look of utter contempt gracing his face that told how much he despised Jinyoung’s puny hands on his things. He would go out of his way to secure those things for himself, even as far as throwing their friendship out the window like they hadn’t known each other for more than ten years should the situation call for it (it had never even remotely grazed that point, but every small thing amounted to severe issues in Bambam’s book): first the toys, then the bikes, then the friends, then the attention, and then the lovers—though the last bit was beyond obvious.

 

Jinyoung remembered many things.

 

He remembered not being able to have a crush on the same person as his friend, not even in fictional premises. They had agreed on not liking the same color, same haircut, same sense of fashion, same skins and champions in League of Legends. It was almost a given, anyway; Jinyoung and Bambam were virtually polar opposites (though he began to wonder if their imposed standards were what had driven their appetences apart).

 

He had a particular penchant to look back to the time Bambam had so effortlessly threatened their friendship because Jinyoung _thought_ of purchasing the same shoes as him. Jinyoung liked them. His intention wasn’t to become the perfect mimicry of his friend, or at least, that was the way Bambam and his massive ego had framed the excuse.

 

Jinyoung remembered that they had shared the same lover. It was a teeth-gritting memory for Bambam, but Jinyoung could offer nothing but a shy simper at it. He had first been Bambam’s boyfriend for some time, before breaking it off with him using some deplorable, painstakingly see-through alibi that even made cold-blooded Jaebum laugh.

 

The same guy asked Jinyoung out almost three years later, and Jinyoung had shrugged a backhanded approbation without a strict afterthought. Bambam had turned into nothing short of satan’s unborn child when he’d learned of it, asking Jinyoung in a sullen shout whether he was out of his mind or just plain stupid. Jinyoung didn’t bother answering, and contented to focus on his love life without the reprimands of his friend for once.

 

It would no doubt be difficult news to anyone. It was an undiscussed rule of friendship, and Jinyoung recognized his error. Except they were 12 when Bambam dated the guy, and by the time he came to flirt with Jinyoung, they were nearing 15. It probably didn’t give Jinyoung the honest rights to concede to it, but the period still marked a huge difference in maturity.

 

Bambam was never one to let go.

 

So when the name of Mark Tuan staggered out of Bambam’s mouth during their last year of high school, Jinyoung knew better than to intrude.

  
  


Mark was in his sophomore year of college, a few years older than them. He caught genital herpes from a random girl he cheated on his girlfriend with, and he fooled around with Bambam, among many others.

 

Luckily, Bambam narrowly dodged the disease even though they forewent protection, and Jinyoung had itched to whack the back of his friend’s head for the stupidity of his near-accident, if he hadn’t been gripped by the urge of gathering Bambam in a comforting hug when he came out of the doctor’s booth with relieved tears streaming down his cheeks, confirming his condition clear of nasty STIs.

 

That was really all Jinyoung knew of Mark, aside from the knowledge de trop of the guy’s exceptional talent in bed. Jinyoung pushed himself to listen whether the information brought him anything or not, so Bambam wouldn’t point a disdainful finger at him in peremptory accusation later.

 

The underlying fact that Mark was a huge, can’t-be-denied cheating scumbag topped by a fuckboy emanation that could fool grandma next door came hand-in-hand with Bambam’s endless ramblings. He praised Mark like Jinyoung’s christian neighbors revered god; he couldn’t help but find it a little hilarious, aside from it knitting his brows together in confusion.

 

Even without personally knowing Mark, the fact alone that he had genital herpes should be staring Bambam in the face and screaming an ominous _are you sure?_ at him. His friend didn’t even seem fazed that someday, he could be walking out of Mark’s room with a disease stinging his ass next to his limp.

 

Mark cheated on his American girlfriend with many people, and Bambam was a desolate ‘one among others’.

 

Shouldn’t that be a major, glaring red flag?

 

“I just keep going back.” Bambam scratched the back of his head, so uncharacteristically sheepish. Jinyoung resisted the incoming eye roll.

 

“Maybe you just like him,” he offhandedly theorized in reply, and was surprised by the look of utter horror Bambam pulled.

 

“Eww, god no. I don’t. He’s just good at sex.”

 

The dreamy expression etched into his features betrayed Bambam’s every word. Jinyoung sighed.

 

Mark had to be drop-dead gorgeous, incredibly rich and bearing the savvy of sex worthy of Mariah Carey's interest to be able to bend Bambam’s nonexistent inclination in emotional attraction to his will without much effort.

  


-

  


The first time Jinyoung saw Mark, it was through an endless string of pictures on Bambam’s phone.

 

Jinyoung had first bound Mark to a beefy guy with a silhouette of a demigod, chocolate-bar abs and relatively toned arms. That was the description that lined perfectly with Bambam’s preferences when it came to guys, but Mark was just paper-thin and averagely good looking at best.

 

He wasn’t otherworldly handsome, but somehow proportionate to Jinyoung’s own humble preferences. How ironic, when Bambam made it a habit to spend at least two minutes a day prodding at Jinyoung’s apparently awful taste in men with an annoying sing-song tone.

 

Not that it mattered.

  
  


The first time Jinyoung _really_ met Mark, it felt like he already knew him.

 

He had been mourning a breakup, and though the relationship had lasted no longer than three months and Jongin was objectively lower than scum, Jinyoung was instilled in such a friendless state that being involved with said scum felt like he was living a fairytale. He was _so_ lonely he had the guts to hold onto that relationship that was bound to go down the drain like a lifeline.

 

The breakup wasn’t an easy one, as breakups usually had it, and Jinyoung hadn’t been gently laid down like his fragile condition had prayed for.

 

Jongin aside, he also had his finals to worry about. By definition, Jinyoung was not forgiving when it came to studies. Study week and finals were synonymous to a crammed schedule with little to no gaps, which meant that he hardly got to see Bambam in the light of day, if any at all. His friend had been pretty sour, but was quick to turn his absence into menace material.

 

He missed skinship, and he missed having a life. He had never been so glad to see the back of his academic life for a while. He couldn’t care less if that was the last time he’d see his high school.

 

So Jinyoung, after a round of thorough accusation on Bambam’s behalf, ended up hauling his ass outside and into a bar, where Mark and the rest of his college friends awaited him, as well as Bambam’s lingering warnings about not laying a finger on the American.

 

Jinyoung had a habit of associating premade temperaments to people he didn’t know. He expected them to behave a certain way in accordance to his visions. Naturally, he was largely prepared for Mark’s full-scale flirty behavior, and by extension, after Bambam’s dramatic glorification of Mark’s performance in bed, Jinyoung was expecting to meet a sex god. But to his surprise, it never came.

 

Mark was calm and laid-back, marginally lethargic. He had extended a curt hand towards Jinyoung in greeting, talking with ease but not quite upfront with his arrival. There was a vague shyness lingering in his gestures that were so small in comparison to Bambam’s explosive energy, but Mark was flinty in nature.

 

Up close, he looked better than in those low-quality pictures taken by Bambam who suddenly grew two left hands whenever photography was involved. But Jinyoung made sure to put as much distance between them as it was physically possible while still remaining in the appropriate proximity; Bambam had staged a brisk intervention before their first meeting and had disclosed every reasons why Jinyoung shouldn’t even stand within Mark’s vicinity.

 

Those reasons were, of course, relative to Bambam in some way or another.

 

As much as Jinyoung hated Bambam’s fashion of claiming properties— _calling dibs_ —that was exactly the whole issue. But because it had been a while of eluding the other during study week, Bambam even invested the effort to sugar-coat and disguise his excuses, distorting them to somehow sound like they benefitted Jinyoung. _It’s for your own good Nyoung._

  
  


“I didn’t get laid for _three months_ ,” Bambam had moaned while he finger-combed his hair with slick gel before they headed to the bar.

 

“How unbelievable.” Jinyoung wrinkled his nose at the prickling smell.

 

Bambam hadn’t caught on to his sarcasm, or perhaps he was intentionally side-stepping it in favor of unloading his frustration. “I know right! But that’s okay, tonight’s the night. I know Mark well; he’s just like any other guy, easy to arouse. You just need to do the right things, press the right buttons, you know?”

 

Jinyoung wanted to gag at the poorly attempted wink that closed both Bambam’s eyes.

  
  


_The irony,_ Jinyoung thought as Mark’s lips wet from some irresistibly strong liquor brushed against his ear. He was whispering, but Jinyoung would be extraterrestrial if he could make out those soft blabbers amidst the blaring speakers that sat not even five meters away from them.

 

That didn’t mean he did not enjoy the low rumble of Mark’s baritone voice carrying like waves into Jinyoung’s brain, though. In fact, Jinyoung saw himself leaning in fractionally just to catch those vain words.

 

There they were, sitting so close Jinyoung had nowhere else to place his hand but on Mark’s thigh, their knees touching and Mark’s fingers tickling the back of his neck.

 

Jinyoung had borne premature judgements upon Mark’s head: a walking disease, a ticking bomb, a categorized character Jinyoung generally never had, and shouldn’t have, any dealings with. He was perfectly conscious that Mark had done this to thousands of victims prior to him—skimming fingers, adventurous gazes, perceptive eyes that made you feel so special without necessarily being much to him, and Jinyoung was proof of this—but somehow, the effort to concede was so sparse. Everything just dovetailed way too easily.

 

His own reasoning prior to meeting Mark came back to bite him in the ass: yes, he hadn’t exactly let Mark’s disease and many other signs of his alleged repugnance slip from his memory, but there was just a deciding magnetism to the guy that made him drop all awareness and just enjoy the moment.

 

In the span of a few hours, Mark went from being a red alarm glaring in all directions to being a man with a pleasing-to-look-at face, soft hands and an addictive voice. Jinyoung’s drunk self seemed to have taken an abnormal liking to him.

 

Though in the span of a few seconds, Bambam and his face drowned in an ocean of disdain and pristine jealousy came to dismantle the whole sentiment.

 

“Jackson said Mark’s trying to get in your pants,” he harshly tugged at Jinyoung’s sides, the broad intention being to watch his hand fall from Mark’s flimsy thigh. Even drunk, Bambam still managed to make it sound like keeping his hands to himself was more of a concern for Jinyoung than it was for him.

 

 _No shit_ , Jinyoung wanted to retort. But that would be ammo for Bambam’s arsenal, so Jinyoung bit on his tongue to stop it from escaping him. He could say he was proud of his lucidity and his mulling over his words before they wreaked havoc even when he’d had one too many shots.

 

Unfortunately for Bambam, Mark and Jinyoung could barely sit still, surreptitiously finding a way to touch the other without making it too obvious.

 

At some point, as Jinyoung queued for the toilet right behind Mark—he _tried_ to deny that it was inscribed within his intentions in bold, capital letters—they had both been pushed in the cramped cubicle, and were expected to be engrossed in a feverish, intense lip-locking situation.

 

Jinyoung had morals, though, drunk or sober. So as Mark peed and asked Jinyoung whether he could wait or if his bladder was about to burst, Jinyoung didn’t have it in himself to pin his restroom partner against the wall and hump him right then and there.

 

When they emerged, followed by the drowned sound of the toilet flushing, they were met with curious but covert glances, and one resentful pair of eyes.

 

Bambam abruptly pulled him to the side, still having half the mind to be worried about nasty eavesdropping although the pounding music already made his slurs difficult to catch. “What did you do?”

 

“Calm down Bam,” Jinyoung said, but he might as well could’ve whispered it in his mind because Bambam did not seem to heed even a word from him.

 

He tugged at Jinyoung’s arms again, this time lighter, as though resigned but clearly in distress. “What did you both do? What did you both do in there?”

 

“Nothing, I promise we did nothing.” And Jinyoung spoke the truth.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes, Bam. I promise you.”

 

“God, I got so depressed for a second there. I knew I could trust you hyung.” Bambam wiped his forehead, looking genuinely apologetic. So apologetic, in fact, that he failed to detect Jinyoung’s constipated face.

 

Being held in high esteem never tasted so bitter. Or perhaps Jinyoung had had too much beer.

  


They finished the night at Jackson’s apartment, passing a joint on his balcony that could only fit three people, to which Jinyoung politely declined—he was not a fan of having his ineptitude at smoking pot laughed at.

 

Jackson immediately passed out on his own bed, while Mark, Bambam and himself tried to find enough place to embroil themselves in the tiny compartment.

 

Mark’s gaze was so heavy. It was even heavier with the marijuana burning in his veins and slowing down his whole system, weighing that gaze of his down to nothing short of a haggard stare. Jinyoung knew this because it was set on him so firmly he figured there must be a hole between his eyes somewhere, until they saw the first glimmer of morning skim the horizon.

 

“You’re smart,” Mark poked a finger in his face after some philosophical baloney had accidentally eluded him in the brume of his intoxication, the elder all lethargic and spineless, reduced into puddles. Bambam seemed too far gone in the clouds to care about Mark’s thigh draped over Jinyoung’s leg, their faces not too far apart.

 

Jinyoung blinked, himself not high but still riding the fading flood of alcohol, trying to make sense in Mark’s compliment. The blush came in belated when he’d realized how affected and bothered he was by a lone, surely meaningless compliment Mark had the tongue to say to people. He knew how to please his victims.

 

When it was time to go back home, it was still the three of them. Bambam sure was resilient in his mission of never leaving them to their own devices _ever_ again, for more reasons than one.

 

Most importantly, it was 8 am and Jinyoung was tired beyond belief, anticipating a nauseating hangover that would entail within the next few hours, and Mark had said to him that _this was not goodbye,_ and _they’d see each other again_.

 

The hand that touched his was supposed to retreat at Bambam’s disconcerting glare, but Mark let it falter unnecessarily longer.

 

Mark had the faculty to make him forget that he was the very person who carried genital herpes.

  
  


They didn’t exchange contacts; that was how confident they were.

  


-

  


The second time Jinyoung saw Mark, they engendered the drama that everyone secretly dreaded, one way or another.

 

That same day, Jinyoung had said to Bambam: “Don’t worry. I don’t do ‘no strings attached’, and I’m not attracted to Mark. The most I could do to him is kiss, nothing more.”

 

That still didn’t seem to be good news for Bambam. “Nah, you should be careful. Don’t even kiss him. He has herpes, who knows if he also has it on his lips? I mean the guy’s been around. I know him well.”

 

Jinyoung scoffed. If Bambam was going to lie, he might as well learn the subtle art of being convincing. _Might as well flaunt how deep your connection with Mark is too, right?_

  


The night started off as usual, seeing Jinyoung and Bambam double checking their appearances in the mirror as they waited for the others’ call to meet up. Bambam, muttering himself a pep talk to pull a move on Mark, and Jinyoung, sat at the end of the bed and subtly examining himself— _in hopes that a certain someone would notice the assets he had endeavored to accentuate._ That, he knew, was forbidden to his brooding friend’s ears dawdling next to him.

 

Mark wore the exact same clothes as last time, Jinyoung noted when they reached Sungjin’s apartment, and the same cologne. A simple wine red button down and black jeans. Bambam walked straight to him, and soon, they were rapt in a conversation Jinyoung had close to no way to take part in.

 

Despite the faint instinct that he might’ve done it on purpose, Jinyoung tended to forget that Bambam and Mark were friends before they were casual lovers.

 

A few pre-drinks and a relatively dizzy head later, they found themselves settling in the bar. They arrived later than usual, and the place was quite crowded even though it was Thursday and students should be kept within the four walls of their rooms, captured in the revisions for tomorrow’s history test. Nonetheless, they squeezed their way in and Jinyoung couldn’t help the yelp in his heart when Mark’s warm, _warm_ hand lodged itself on the slant of his toned back.

 

Mark was bold, so bold that night. If Jinyoung had known he’d get this daring, he wouldn’t have drank so much, and would be able to play the responsible,

sober uncle.

 

Sober was an impossible concept, at this rate.

 

They didn’t dance much, but they managed the suggestion embalmed in every gesture, every movement. Hands and eyes in the wrong places. The notion of personal space completely eradicated. Admittedly, Mark wasn’t the only one being exceptionally bold tonight.

 

Jinyoung entwined their fingers right in front of Bambam’s face.

 

Of course, that earned him another tug so brisk that his hand fell from Mark’s hold, and a scold that Jinyoung couldn’t clearly hear, aside from a curt _what are you doing_ , and something along the lines of _are you out of your mind?_

 

“So—Sorry Bam. I’m drunk.”

 

What an excuse.

 

His hand often fell between the gaps of Mark’s fingers. It was so warm and reminiscent of his past dead relationship. Jinyoung was hungry for skinship, not sex. He liked having Mark’s body warmth close to his, feeling human flesh under the pads of his hand and not the rough texture of paper. It was a weak consolation for his humdrum, insipid life. Jongin hadn’t been full of colors, had failed to spraypaint Jinyoung’s life with rainbows and fireworks.

 

It wasn’t so acceptable anymore. Not when Jinyoung was holding Mark’s hand like this.

 

Bambam was having none of it though, and had devised a strange approach to the situation.

 

He had wrenched Jinyoung’s whole body from Mark’s, grabbed his neck, and crashed his lips against his so strong Jinyoung’s head flew back and his mouth throbbed from the contact.

 

He was kissing—no, _making out_ with his childhood best friend in front of said friend’s former fuck friend and Jinyoung’s current crush.

 

Bambam retracted his head from a dazed Jinyoung with a trail of saliva following his lips and a knowing smirk on his face. Mark, still as expressionless as always, only watched in silence. They were fighting through their stares, not that Jinyoung really understood what was being communicated.

 

Mark was not deterred, and that was the point Jinyoung sensed that they should probably cease before they stirred unnecessary trouble.

 

He was a goner, though, and too drunk to care. At this point, they were basically just waiting for Bambam to break.

 

Ed Sheeran’s _Shape of you_ played, a classic for these kinds of bars, and Mark’s eyes had never been so difficult to leave. It was laborious and ultimately useless to resist the urge to lean in and whisper pathetic, repetitive excuses like _‘are you okay? you look drunk’_ in Mark’s ear, holding the gaze.

 

There was an irresistible itch in his fingers, shrieking in frustration to stretch out and curl around Mark’s hand. Jinyoung did not understand why, out of all the urges in the world, he was gripped by the desire to link fingers with Mark.

 

He felt Bambam’s glower on them with prickling awareness, he felt his friend’s fury looking at Mark treating Jinyoung like he once did Bambam. Jinyoung was sure it would distress just about anyone, _but he didn’t care._

 

Call him inconsiderate, Jinyoung just wanted to kiss Mark.

 

Jinyoung wasn’t sure how it happened, as some guy was busy begging him for his number—and Mark didn’t seem to bestow even a shred of his concern—but when he turned back around, Bambam was caught in a heated argument with Mark.

 

Jinyoung’s heart momentarily sank as he was displayed with Bambam’s back in a short distance, his voice tearing through the thick layer of music at ever so indifferent Mark.

 

He immediately felt something heavy crush his lungs. Jinyoung shouldn’t have permitted himself to be selfish. That was usually Bambam’s job, without shoving anyone under the bus. It was simply the way things were.

 

Jackson, surprisingly the most sober out of them all, gently tapped his shoulder and slowly shook his head. _It’s okay_ , he seemed to be saying, and somehow, Jinyoung felt like crying. It was probably the overwhelming onslaught of the situation’s potential severity that found a home on his shoulders, weighing him down.

 

He tried to make out even a skimper of Bambam and

Mark’s argument, and instantly regretted it like he suddenly regretted this whole night.

 

“You were my first, Mark! What do you expect? And you almost fucking gave me herpes!”

 

Jinyoung didn’t know what was worst: Bambam’s

obvious attachment, or him bringing up something he usually never even prodded at.

 

The appearance of both told Jinyoung how serious everything was.

 

After his fit with Mark, Bambam had directed the concoction of drunken and sullen temperament towards a cowering Jinyoung, who didn’t dare speak a word of refutation. He had too much respect for their friendship to be deliberately flirting with the person his friend had feelings for like this. Yet that was what he had done, and he felt like the world’s scrutiny was on him, pointing fingers at his error.

 

Bambam’s distraught speech didn’t even register, as Jinyoung got too busy wallowing in his own guilt, unable to absorb Mark’s gaze on him, embarrassing him, this time heavy with something else.

 

He crumbled into Jackson’s side, the remaining awkwardness between them suddenly disappearing.

 

Mark, beyond pissed, didn’t meet his eyes for the rest of the night, and Jinyoung couldn’t either.

  


-

  


Bambam wasn’t exactly angry with him, he learned later. But he wasn’t the same.

 

“I’m angry at myself, for feeling this way. For being so damn possessive. I’m sorry for reacting that way to you, I was drunk.”

 

Jinyoung knew that the apology came from the bottom of Bambam’s heart, though he also knew—and no amount of denying would convince him otherwise—that this resentment stemmed from an overpowering sense of domination over property that his friend had unremittingly claimed.

 

Jinyoung had relinquished, though, because Bambam’s cinema was getting old and Jinyoung was growing up; his summer was about to begin and he wouldn’t like his mood spoiled from the very start. He warned himself to stay away from everyone that was involved the other night until matters cooled down back to zero.

 

Zero; that was the chance Jinyoung still had with Mark.

 

His best friend was more important, of course, but there was something dire within Jinyoung that was repulsed by Bambam’s possessiveness. It had been an everlasting issue in the past, but this time seemed less tolerable than others.

 

Jinyoung’s love life was already at stake as it was, why did Bambam always have to get in the way?

 

At those thoughts, he never failed to sigh an energy-deprived breath. After all, if they were hardly on speaking terms, it was because of Jinyoung’s stupid recklessness, or his reckless stupidity, if that made any difference. And the only thing he could score wasn’t anywhere beyond an ephemeral, carnal relationship with Mark.

 

Choked by boredom and utter loneliness, he still scrolled through old pictures of Jongin, but the uncomfortable churning in his stomach implied his gratitude for the way that things now were and that he’d greatly regret getting back with him.

  
  


Until one particularly uneventful day, Mark broke the monotony of his daily emptiness with a blunt, heart-throbbing text.

 

 **[01:32] Mark:** I’ve been thinking about you.

 

They didn’t even have each other’s social medias, so imagine his surprise at Mark’s feat of finding him.

 

Jinyoung hadn’t bothered answering. He left their waning connection to wilt uselessly, careful not to let the loose ends touch. That would be a definitive wrap-up of whatever little friendship with Bambam he scarcely sustained.

 

Be as it may, Mark wasn’t the type to be _thinking_ of someone else without the conclusion of sex impeding the general concept of romance. Because that was it; Mark didn’t do romance, and Jinyoung was almost convinced he did not want anything of the wanton nature with the elder.

 

He had _genital herpes_ for heaven’s sake. To this day, Jinyoung was entirely baffled by how unbothered Bambam was towards the matter, not to mention his friend was still so adamant to wind up in yet another cycle of being casual lovers with Mark, who wasn’t keen on putting down his roots with one specific person. His own girlfriend was near nonexistent so to speak.

 

Which made Jinyoung wonder all over again: truthfully, was Mark really _that_ good?

 

He was torn. A part of him was desperate to find out, like Jinyoung couldn’t go on another day if it was still kept secret from him, and the other, more rational part of himself essentially deemed it a waste of time for what it was worth, plus the unnecessary risk of catching an incurable sexual disease.

 

The heart was never objective, and neither was Jinyoung’s brain.

  


-

  


The third time Jinyoung saw Mark, he looked different in the wake of the sun.

 

His face was lighter and much more fragile, and if Jinyoung didn’t know of his carefree sex adventures, he would’ve thought Mark was a simple boy living in a simple dorm room carving himself a dull, pedestrian life ahead of him with nearly everything already planned. It was smeared all over his existence, with the way he characteristically carried himself, the slant and laziness in his stance reflecting his passiveness.

 

In fact, Mark _was_ a simple boy living in a simple dorm room. Jinyoung just had a difficult time coming to terms with it.

 

Just like it was hard to reconcile to his abrupt decision of responding to Mark’s advances.

 

There he was, reclined in Mark’s big couch and nervously twisting his fingers. If Jinyoung could say so himself, the air that hung about felt strained and heavy, as though it was a premonition of what would later entail.

 

His host, on the other hand, looked quite relaxed, composed of his usual lethargic front, and had Mark’s eyes been rimmed with the telltale redness, he would have at least presumed the elder high on weed.

 

Instead, Mark had asked him if he wanted something to drink or eat like Jinyoung hadn’t brought along with him an incredibly suggestive request—it couldn’t possibly get more explicit—had made frivolous, small talk, and had even gone out of his way to ignore Jinyoung’s tense silence.

 

_What on Earth was he doing here?_

 

The answer to his question emerged in the form of Jinyoung throwing himself on Mark and kissing the life out of him, sensing Mark momentarily going taut within his embrace before towing along to his actions, slithering his arms around Jinyoung’s waist.

 

They carried whatever the hell it was Jinyoung had the half-baked judgment to instigate in the bedroom, lips finding lips in the white heat and hands finding belt buckles under the shroud of their heavy gazes. The afternoon sun was high up in the sky beyond the window, light spilling on the floor and on the bed where their numb limbs were gently interweaved.

 

Life still funneled its motions outside, leaving the two aroused teenagers to kiss and undress behind its wheels. Jinyoung was a bit apprehensive about the faint chirping of birds and sounds of car horns below Mark’s window drowned by the lewd resonance of their lips meeting; it was strange to make love in the middle of the day, with someone he hardly knew, at someplace remote from the place he called home.

 

He’d thought maybe Mark would offer a blunt to smoke before they engaged themselves into anything at all, to stimulate an easier passion between two virtual strangers, but there was no intoxicating involved, no drunken filter.

 

The image of Bambam’s disapproving face was almost enough to decline Jinyoung’s complete state of libido.

 

That was until he felt two of Mark’s fingers wet with sweat and a generous coat of lube graze his rear. Jinyoung’s inside literally jumped, and he faltered shortly, pushing himself back.

 

Perhaps no intoxication was a good idea after all, or Jinyoung would surely find himself in the doctor’s booth with a positive STI test weighing in his hand some time later, ultimately regretting his life choices.

 

“Put on a condom,” he demanded resolutely. Mark’s round eyes shadowed with lust told his surprise at Jinyoung’s sudden outburst, and he was irked by the need to supply his argument. “I know you have herpes. So put on a condom.”

 

“I don’t have any condoms.” Mark deadpanned, as though it was no big deal, and Jinyoung could go home wearing a disease as a brand new pair of underwear. If Jinyoung’s brain wasn’t so clouded by lust, he would have rolled his eyes. _Of course_.

 

He slid off of Mark meeting much resistance, lips pursed into a horizontal line, trying to monitor his trembling hands to wriggle back into his pants. Mark caught his wrist and easily pulled him atop his bare body once again, tracing a wry finger along his collarbones.

 

“You top. Problem solved.”

 

Jinyoung blinked. “Okay.” He seriously needed to sort his priorities.

 

Before he replaced his fingers inside Mark with something else, the words eluded him before he could help it: “But next time, you better buy condoms.”

 

And with that, Jinyoung just established the fact that there would be a _next time_.

  


-

  


Mark wasn’t as good in bed as Bambam’s preaches seemed to guarantee.

 

It was no hindrance to Jinyoung’s sexcapades, though.  

 

Because it wasn’t only for the gratification of his primitive needs that Jinyoung often found himself stumbling through Mark’s front door. That was far from his intent, actually.

 

Mark had a sightful view from his bedroom window. When they’d finished and Jinyoung thought Mark out cold on the bed, he would teeter closer to the window frame and relish whatever time of the day it was. Regularly, Jinyoung would be staring into the dark ink of the summer’s starless night, counting the little heads that filed by on the bustling streets of Seoul like busy ants.

 

Jinyoung was drawn over to Mark for the surprise creeping of arms around his waist, chiseled chin pinching his shoulder and the tickling bristles of Mark’s blonde hair scraping his temple; his sleepy voice grumbling in his ear.

 

He came for the late night trips to the convenience store, Jinyoung sitting his scalding ass on those plastic chairs, eating his instant noodles in front of Mark and his signature crappy blueberry cheesecake in the mellow shroud of the dark. Just two lonesome cheapskates enjoying half-priced food, but their presence was wholesome.

 

The exchange of words was few, both of them stretched out thin and too worn to move their jaws, but Jinyoung couldn’t find it in himself to complain. They’d had plenty of other exchanges, by other means. It was amply sufficient.

 

More than the sex, Jinyoung enjoyed watching Mark languidly sucking on a joint, their feet propped on the railing of his balcony and eyes not lost beyond in the horizon of blackness, but in the swirl of each other’s orbs.

 

He liked it even more when Mark would let him hold his hand, _a real hold_ , two hands molded together like they were surgically sewn. The gaps between their fingers brimful, a pretty sensation mirroring the current state of his heart.

 

Mark’s sloth energy was a great vantage point for Jinyoung’s inclination to do whatever domestic fiasco he wanted to enact, although he recognized none of the ministrations between them were sincere, regardless of the amount of honey coating the gestures.

 

Jinyoung had uncovered a new awakening in him when Mark would play Arctic Monkeys on the defect speakers of his old phone, as different rambles inclusive to his family issues and other mundane problems poured straight from his soul. Mark’s voice snuggled in the warmth of the night sounded so clear, infinitely better than the broken notes of his guttural groans or folded between the ear-splitting decibels of the bar’s music. Jinyoung found some sort of unestablished solace in it.

 

It was so trivial, but that was exactly what Jinyoung feared.

 

Questionably, Mark never brought up his girlfriend in the little conversations they had, but, well, it was much easier this way. Where it felt like Jinyoung could finally contemplate about his own life for once, reflect on his own decisions, not having to worry about anything else outside the scope of himself and Mark.

  
  


Mark wasn’t outright bad in bed. He just didn’t meet the expectations that Jinyoung had set, no matter how ridiculous it was to have standards and parameters appointed in the first place.

 

Mark was rough, poorly disciplined in pleasing both ends equally. He didn’t always graze Jinyoung’s prostate, didn’t always bring him the mind-blowing, ecstatic, toe-curling climax, and definitely didn’t bother regulating his pinching tendencies. There were times tears had skiddled down Jinyoung’s cheek not out of bliss, rather at how painful it was to take something of that size inside him without any rewarding sensations that the act supposedly promised.

 

It was a little bit of a let down, but it hadn’t been enough to fence Jinyoung off.

 

Mark, on the contrary, seemed to be thoroughly delighted with their deal. He didn’t think Mark was aware of the sting at the tail of Jinyoung’s spine each time his hips stammered right before his orgasm, the raw burn around his rim. He kept going nonetheless.

 

Jinyoung’s real recompense befell at the end of each session, when Mark was spent and melted in his embrace like molten lava, reduced to putty, eyes fluttering from the weight of drowsiness pressing down on them.

 

Jinyoung felt most remunerated when they’d coil up in Mark’s bathtub later, the elder’s soapy hands animating suds in his hair and stroking a finger none too gently along his drenched arms, trailing a nail on his stirring tummy, making it contract.

 

He sought out that kind of softness that was present inside of Mark, dim and sunken beneath layers of frigid phlegmatism, tried to pry open that aspect of himself so Jinyoung could benefit of it more.

 

Jinyoung noticed that when he pulled a bold move, it would carve a smile in Mark’s sharp features, that smile that brought forth the resplendence of his canines. If even a kind graze to his skin could make him bleed, Jinyoung would beg Mark to drink all the blood his veins had to offer if that meant he could feel those attractive teeth on him longer.

 

Jinyoung noticed that when he raked Mark’s tousled bed hair in the morning during the nights when he’d crash, Mark would bite down on his lips to lessen the fluster he knew was crawling behind the rose of his cheeks.

 

Jinyoung noticed that when he would turn up in front of his door even when he’d sent a text that it would be his last time, Mark would catch himself in sweet surprise despite the obvious, the usual guarded stoicity impaled in his eyes momentarily becoming a stark shade of tender.

 

He found himself crawling back for the smallest of things, but notably more worthwhile than the proposed wanton activities that wasn’t even halfway decent on Jinyoung’s end.

 

He couldn’t catch himself from the fall.

  
  


Mark still had genital herpes, a girlfriend, and the fuckboy emanation that could fool grandma next door. The only thing that changed was Jinyoung’s mind.

  


-

  


Jinyoung sometimes wished the intimate details about Mark he recently uncovered could go rot in hell and never reincarn themselves again. They took up a lot of space in his memory storage, and it did not help that they’d decided to settle in the most prominent compartment of his brain.

 

They became a constant thought, things that wore him down at every ticking second of the day, that flashed upon the back of his eyes in parallel to the unforgettable image of Mark Tuan. Jinyoung became unable to even think straight anymore, and it was driving him to an edge so close to insanity.

 

Jinyoung never had to know how much effort it took to wake the elder up in the mornings, or how he absolutely despised kissing in those piddling moments of grogginess.

 

Jinyoung never had to know that Mark’s pathetic excuse of a dishcloth, an old shirt, belonged to a friend back in America to whom Mark was especially close—which explained why he had qualms about washing it. He never had to know this person’s name was Adam or something equally American, and that he had been the head of their school’s soccer team besides having been, in his words, Mark’s bestest best friend in the universe.

 

Jinyoung never had to know that conditionner was a vital constitution of Mark’s shower ritual, despite the needlessness of it that came with the length of his hair. It had once been subject to a ridiculous but heated debate between them—in the shower, no less.

 

Jinyoung never had to know Mark used recyclable tote bags in the stead of plastic ones during the rare times he went grocery shopping, because they had cool patterns on them.

 

They were all but frivolous, yet Jinyoung had much difficulty letting go of each piece of information that he took it upon himself to assemble.

 

Their unimportance made them all the more special, but Jinyoung _truly_ wished he wasn’t so privy to them the way that he was, considering he wasn’t meant to be the detainer of such thoughts that were unlikely to be useful to him in the future—and begged to be forgotten, just like the rest of Mark.

 

His last argument with Mark had him wishing just that.

 

He struggled to understand; why did Mark expose so much of himself when they both knew this was clearly wounding material for Jinyoung? The core of their most recent fight, Mark introducing Jinyoung to his parents, remained untouched and essentially unsolved.

 

He had not only graced the Tuan family with his unexpected presence, but had also tugged along a very obtrusive question mark related to the nature of their relationship, that Jinyoung regrettably did not possess intelligent answers to.

 

“I hope you make our son happy.” Mr. Tuan had such a happy smile that held uncanny similarities to Mark’s, it was hard to tell the blunt truth to his face.

 

Jinyoung frowned anyway. “I’m not—” was all he managed to say in his half-assed English before Mark struck a warning kick at his shin beneath the table.

 

“The happiest, dad.” Mark’s own smile was the fakest Jinyoung had seen.

 

That night had been profusely sprinkled with blunders. From the vague announce that Mark had to retrieve a jacket of all things from his parents’ home, to Mark’s wholehearted eye smile that caused Jinyoung’s heart to go rigid, to Mark’s siblings practically cornering Jinyoung upon their arrival, to Mark’s parents asking absurdly domestic questions about the pair of them, to Mark suddenly deciding on a whim to sleep there and leak his entire childhood to Jinyoung’s unsure scrutiny.

 

The next day, after a thorough make out session back in Mark’s dorm room, Jinyoung’s loose-lipped accident had escalated their happy bubble into a brisk plunder of passive-aggressive arguing—because both of them never shouted.

 

“It came out of nowhere, Mark. Next time you think of introducing me to any of your relatives, it’d be good if you gave me some sort of notice before,” Jinyoung had said, watching Mark light up a cigarette, which surprised him. Mark seldom smoked.

 

“I did. I said we were going back to my parents’ home, didn’t I?”

 

Jinyoung rolled his eyes. “To get your damn jacket. Not to sit at the table acting all domestic with your parents.”

 

“I don’t remember bringing up that suggestion, either.” Mark looked so bored, dazed to an extent, that it almost angered Jinyoung.

 

“That’s because you didn’t, idiot. You seriously need to stop smoking pot, it’s doing questionable things to your brain capacity.”

 

“I’m not the dimwit who happily agreed to step into the parental zone without a second thought. I mean, did you even _try_ to object?” Jinyoung grit his teeth and silently counted to ten. That had hit close to home.

 

Mark blew the last curls of smoke out from between his lips, pressed the tip of his midway smoked cigarette on his glass table (what the hell, Mark Tuan?) before flicking off the remaining butt in some direction, much to Jinyoung's irritation. He lurched to his feet and opened the windows to let the hot summer air seep into his dorm room.

 

“Do you do this with everyone you sleep with? Aside from giving them herpes, of course. A gift is never unwelcomed.” His own words tasted like rusty metal—not that he knew what flavor it actually had, but the feeling didn’t sit well on his tongue.

 

“Your sarcasm is repugnant, you know?”

 

“You would know that the best, wouldn’t you?”

 

Mark rolled his eyes in response and ignored him. “But for the record, yes, I’ve brought many people to see my parents.”

 

“And do you also mislead them into thinking they’re your lover?”

 

At that, Mark cautiously stared at him with his back against the wall and elbows perched on the windowsill, a momentary tautness biting at his shoulder, but it was diffused as quickly as it had settled. Jinyoung blankly stared back.

 

All of a sudden, Mark almost shouted out a resounding laughter from puffed up cheeks, his lips tearing into an appallingly wide smile that had Jinyoung briefly worry about his jaw. His canine never carried such ugly glint under this circumstance.

 

Mark had trouble catching his breath and folded himself in half, arms crossed and clutching at his sides like they would fall apart without some kind of support.

 

Jinyoung blinked once, twice, not decided on whether he should be bewildered or not. Nonetheless, he stomached the pang in his heart and bit at the inside of his mouth.

 

Mark wiped a tear that had prickled at the corner of his eye, a translation that he had a pretty damn good laugh in Jinyoung’s paling face. Something _just mildly_ offending.

 

“Wait,” he tried regulating his breath, shreds of mocking laughter still escaping his lungs. “You thought you were special or something?”

 

Another hit, another bruise.

 

“What? No,” Jinyoung attempted to save his face, a fruitless endeavor, facing Mark who was amused for very misplaced reasons. He found himself emitting the most bitter of chuckles alongside Mark’s dimming cackles, directly aimed at his own stupidity. “It just felt that way. You haven’t exactly denied the possible couple status.”

 

“Jinyoung, lord,” Mark said with an intonation he’d often use when talking to a child. “They _know_ it’s not real. They were just hoping I’d meet someone who’d change me, or some ridiculous shit like that.”

 

“Wow, Mister Heartbreaker. I didn’t know bringing fuck friends home was some kind of social norm now. Like, it’s totally something every kid does to their parents. I assume you must have some kind of list of whoever had ended up in your bed to update your mommy and daddy as well?”

 

Mark’s lip twitched, still not finished with his laughing fit that was beginning to cut deep in Jinyoung’s chest. “You’re being stupid, that’s what. What even makes you think I was trying to mislead them into thinking we were involved in the first place?”

 

“Only an unperceptive idiot would ask this kind of question.” Jinyoung shook his head, shoving his hand in his pocket to ensure he had his keys with him. He’d need to evade this place soon. “I didn’t necessarily think I was special, but only boyfriends bring their partners home. Don’t you think it’s kind of normal that I felt weirded out sitting in front of them?”

 

“Why would it even matter to you?”

 

Jinyoung frowned. Irate eyes looked straight at Mark. “Don’t answer me with a question.”

 

“I’m guessing I’m being unfair?”

 

“No, but you’re kind of just really off tangent right now.”

 

“You’re getting mad,” Mark deadpanned, voice flat, face clearly expressing disinterest. Jinyoung knew he hated to be put in a _situation_ where they had to reach a compromise that would end up never standing a chance.

 

So Jinyoung gladly made him a favor, like his unremitting presence had taken the duty to for the past month, and got up to leave.

 

For some reason, Jinyoung felt good walking out that door.

  
  


There had been close to no hostility weaving between them, and for the first time in never before, the sting felt more healing than any vain reassurance.

 

At least, Mark’s honest disclosures had done a good job at eradicating all traces of hope that was left behind. He had been ridiculed rather than consoled, and if truth be told, that was exactly what Jinyoung longed after.

 

Perhaps a cold truth was better than sweetened lies.

  
  
  


To Jinyoung’s surprise, it was never him who apologized. He’d condoned the rationalization that he had done nothing wrong in the first place, and never exerted himself to ask for amends for an error he was not responsible for.

 

Mark’s apology, although as ambiguous as his entire existence, came in the same day but very late at night. There was never the explicit word of his sorry, but the underlying hint of his guilt was thankfully very clear.

 

 **[23:46] Mark:** I wasn’t thinking

 **[23:55] Mark:** Being an ass, as always

 

 **[23:58] Jinyoung:** That’s okay, just go to sleep

 

 **[23:58] Mark:** Only if I know you’ll be back tomorrow as soon as you can

 

 **[23:59] Jinyoung:** Not a promise

 

 **[00:00] Mark:** Nyoung.

 

 **[00:00] Jinyoung:** I’ll be there in the afternoon

 **[00:01] Jinyoung:** Now just go to sleep

 

 **[00:02] Mark:** Make me

 

 **[00:02] Jinyoung:** Do I have to threaten you with my nudes?

 

 **[00:03] Mark:** Oh please spare me, you’re gonna give me nightmares

 

 **[00:04] Jinyoung:** Well then goodnight Mister Heartbreaker

 

 **[00:04] Mark:** Sweet dreams loverboy

 

Jinyoung had frowned at that. What was true will remain true, he told himself. What good will refuting come to?

  


-

  


The overcast sky rumbled; soon, rain would bleed down from above their heads, spilling on their sagged shoulders and ruminating minds.

 

Bambam’s lifeless face in front of him matched seamlessly with the lining of silver clouds that held a marveling resemblance to burnt marshmallows. It was the crest of noon yet the sun seemed to be too distraught to shine, like a switched-off light bulb. Without it, Jinyoung’s mood was further dampened, especially when put face-to-face with his best friend stripped of any emotions sitting across from him with his fingers laced together and elbows drilled into the wooden surface of the table. Jinyoung felt mildly sorry for the table.

 

It had been a while since the last time they talked. Their most recent physical encounter felt like it had taken place ages ago. Jinyoung knew his friend was slim, but didn’t remember his flesh being so tight around his wrist and cheekbones. Where there used to be swell and healthy fat was now replaced by a hollowness that was almost frightful.

 

“Mark doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore,” Bambam came to say.

 

Suddenly, Jinyoung sensed the figurative weight of guilt crushing his shoulders. It had never truly gone away, but had been muted to a breath no louder than a whisper at the rear end of his brain with the time he spent in Mark’s company.

 

Jinyoung knew how to put two and two together and not end up getting a five. Mark’s love equation was made of mistakes, and had to hold a severe accent if it was able to flip Bambam’s usual uplifting energy upside down like this.

 

“I think I might like him, Jinyoung.”

 

Jinyoung’s mood took a 180 degrees turn.

 

“Is that all?” he shrugged, unable to share compassion.

 

“What do you mean, ‘is that all?’ Can’t you fucking understand how pained I am? After all, this is all your fault.”

 

Jinyoung curled his hands into loose fists. First of all, of _course_ he understood the pain. And secondly, he’d had enough of playing some dysfunctional blame game, but that didn’t mean he wanted to leave everything on a sour note.

 

“Mark ended things with you three months before I met him. Get over yourself; he’s just bored. I have nothing to do with this, except to become his next target. And if you think I’d be stupid enough to sleep with someone bearing herpes, then you’re not my best friend.”

 

Bambam narrowed his eyes at him, as though seeing through his ploy and _knowing_ exactly that Jinyoung was stupid enough to do that.

 

However, Jinyoung only got up, and never turned back. He stomped his way homewards under the dismal sky billowed with awaiting droplets of rain.  

 

It wasn’t his fault that Mark was drawn to anything that possessed some kind of hole like the Earth to the sun.

 

It wasn’t his fault that Bambam got struck by the artificial gestures that Mark bestowed to just about everyone. It wasn’t his fault that Bambam chose to nurture that dangerous deep attachment on his own volition by never reprobating, and always buckling under the weight of temptation. And it wasn’t his fault that Bambam thought himself special.

 

Because Jinyoung knew they both weren’t.

 

Bambam was a target, and Jinyoung a passerby. Bambam had fallen, while Jinyoung  _tried_ not to. That was the main difference between them.

 

The question lagged behind him in the wake of his retreating steps; would Jinyoung cave in to being Mark’s next target, and not a simple passerby?

 

Perhaps it had already happened.

 

Jinyoung probably picked up the habit of deceiving from Mark himself.

  


-

  


Mark smiled a lot.

 

Mark’s best attribute, in fact, was his smile.

 

Even though there was so little worth bargaining, Jinyoung could now identify why Bambam couldn’t refrain himself from collapsing to his knees at the sight of Mark—literally and metaphorically speaking. It was no doubt manipulative, but Jinyoung couldn’t take the power out of it.

 

Mark’s smile seemed to be a generic, mechanical response to anything that was thrown in his direction. He had a vast collection of smiles depending on the air that he wanted to assume.

 

Happy, when Jinyoung teased him, and even though the roast was supposed to make him regret ever coming into existence, Mark’s smile swelled out into full-scale cackles in a high-pitched voice. He didn’t even cover his mouth, baring his teeth to the world. Jinyoung would laugh along, himself loose and timid, but no less genuine.

 

Sad, when Mark talked about his siblings from back home and how much he missed them. It wasn’t a frown, but much similar to a wobbly line Mark whipped himself into keeping straight. Whenever the shy, reminiscent simper graced his handsome face, Jinyoung would take to gather his frail limbs close to him, where it was warm and inviting. So Mark didn’t have to feel so alone anymore, like Jinyoung did sometimes.

 

Angry, in recent times, when Jinyoung would catch Mark’s frown consulting his phone with a vice grip around the device, threatening to crush it into pieces. Mark had a strange approach to deal with anger; he would smile, lips pursed and the minute, derisive snort tasting bitter in Jinyoung’s ears. He never found out what it was that riled Mark up so much, but it never took too long for him to collect himself in the end.

 

But never was Jinyoung met with this smile when he said a decisive goodbye to Mark.

 

It was completely empty.

 

“What do you mean you’re not coming back?” Mark asked. The look on his face could be described as nothing short of arid. There was only that glimmer of a smile, hardly there and devoid of any enthusiasm, but nothing else that conveyed even a shred of emotion.

 

“I mean that this is the last time I’ll see you.” Jinyoung waited for an answer, a shout, a wail, a mumble, a laugh, but Mark just quizzically looked at him, gauging for an element, anything, that would untangle his befuddlement.

 

Out of every natural reaction to what Jinyoung had just said, a cautious “okay” was the least expected of them all. And then Mark turned away from Jinyoung, disappearing back deeper into his home and leaving him to close the door behind him by himself.

 

He knew he was executing the most just of decisions. The options were scant to begin with. But sometimes, Jinyoung wished Mark would try harder, wished his response would be different. Maybe, it would have made him stay.

 

But he remembered he was no more than just a fleeting pastime to entertain Mark’s ennui. A void to fill.

 

It could be anyone, and in this time, it was Jinyoung.

  
  


When Jinyoung saw Bambam’s face the other day, he had reached the disheartening realization that he was unflinchingly staring at his future self in the eye.

 

There was no way his relationship with Mark would bring him anything but a sting to the ass, a potential disease, and a knife twisting at the planes of his chest. In all due respect, Jinyoung prefered saving himself the pain.

 

Jinyoung was slowly but surely digging himself a grave, where Mark could only place a fake flower beside the desolate tombstone, because there was close to nothing real in their bond with the exception of the clenching of his heart whenever Mark displayed one of his happy smiles.

 

And as much as Jinyoung despised Bambam’s attitude towards the whole ordeal—the possessiveness, the resentment, the sulking—it wouldn’t be like himself to drown his friend in the water of rejection by taking his place. Jinyoung was a man of sacrifice; there had never been any opened opportunity for him to prove himself until now, and Jinyoung was committed to his decision and to his morale.

 

If only Bambam’s understanding could grow into the size of his ego, perhaps Jinyoung could suffer in his unrequited situation more peacefully. The guilt was just supplementary, a redundant problem to carry.

 

If truth be told, this personification of a headache that was his best friend was another burden to be lifted more than anything else. Something to cross off the to-do list.

 

So Jinyoung cut ties with Mark, sent his address to Bambam alongside some ridiculous excuse to lure both entities together like some atoms, knowing full well his friend would seize his chance with Mark faster than a blink of an eye. And given Mark’s character, Jinyoung knew best he would be the last one to turn down a sex offer.

 

And he walked away.

  


-

  


Mark and Jinyoung practically lived the same kind of life; except it wasn’t the same shade of monochrome.

 

Jinyoung was used to the dreariness of boredom, of the lack of happenstances. If Jinyoung was a job, he would be the monotonous 9 to 5 office grind with the occasional coffee erand. Being alone wasn’t so bad, sometimes. He quite enjoyed the silence.

 

Mark was used to leaping from one to another, like a fleeting flicker of a star. Present here, absent there. It couldn’t accurately be called a monotony, but it invariably fell under the same old pattern of seeking out for someone, at some point. Mark was never alone, constantly delving for company, though not around an enthroned, specific kind.

 

Not just someone, but anyone.

 

Jinyoung wasn’t sure whether it was an honor to have been that person among millions.

  


-

  


The last time Jinyoung met Mark, it was some time later, in his new college.

 

Jinyoung stopped in his tracks when he noticed a familiar silhouette standing at the end of the corridor, the light of the waning day plundering past him. He’d thought it was just an error in his perhaps declining eyesight, but the closer he got, the clearer Mark’s figure became, and the bigger the dread grew.

 

It was too late to turn back, and even if he’d wanted to, he’d have to contour the whole building to find the other exit, and after a long day, Jinyoung could already feel his feet screech in protest.

 

“Jackson said I’d find you here,” Mark’s voice sliced through the crisp silence after a beat too long of utter void. The evening was ghost-quiet.

 

“Why did you want to find me?” was Jinyoung’s instinctive reply.

 

Mark wasn’t immediately responsive, and Jinyoung didn’t have enough patience and energy in this instant to survive a new wave of headache, so he briskly breezed past Mark’s shoulder to head to his next destination.

 

Honestly, he was hoping to never see Mark’s face again, if only to prevent the reanimation of buried, repressed feelings.

 

“Wait—”

 

He felt his wrist being grasped, the hold not forceful but stern, snaring him on his feet. Jinyoung looked at his intercepter, fighting the urge to tug his hand back, but Mark seemed so lost, almost confused. His mouth fell just slightly agape, enough for Jinyoung to spot his tongue twisting anxiously. There was an involuntary twitch to his brow, his eyes shining in wavering unsurety.

 

“I have feelings for you.”

 

Jinyoung’s skin suddenly burned, but the blood that ran his veins felt staunchly cold, before he wrenched his wrist back from Mark’s loosening grip to examine the hairs that have raised on his arm. Against his will, a diminutive laugh escaped him, marred with a false note.

 

“You have a girlfriend.” There came the unsaid.

 

“Stop smiling like that. It’s not honest.” Mark whispered. To say Jinyoung was at a staggering edge of sheer confusion and minor shock would be a euphemism. He wanted to slip into the comfort of his bed and maybe consult a doctor about this recent hallucination.

 

He’d checked through and through, and his normally better-than-average memory had never failed him once. So how had he missed _Mark Tuan_ in the list of juniors in his college?

 

“What are you doing here?” Jinyoung took a step back for fear of heart failure. The subject of his torment inched forth, ready to interfere between Jinyoung’s motive to evade the premises.

 

If Mark didn’t bark out a laugh of mocking nature right then and there, Jinyoung was sure god had a morbid taste in entertainment.

 

“I love you, Jinyoung.” The falter in Mark’s voice betrayed his composed face.

 

Jinyoung blinked.

 

What a tasteless lie.

 

With his years spent around Bambam, he could say he was an expert at schooling his own facial expressions into a static staleness. Coldly, bluntly, unflinchingly, he launched back a cruel lie in one sentence: “I’m sorry, Mark-hyung, but I don’t feel the same way.”

 

His brief hesitation was long enough for him to catch the crestfallen crack in Mark’s stoic front before he swiveled on his heels, forced himself to walk instead of hitting a record-breaking sprint back to his home. He didn’t want to see it.

 

The last time he saw Mark, he hadn’t even budged from where he was frozen like the hands of the clock stopped ticking the present into the past, arms slack along his thin frame.

  
  


Actually, the last time he saw Mark, it was at the same bar where everything was first brought to pass. Only this time, Mark had Bambam on his arm, an ungainly smile Jinyoung could hardly recognize, and the perpetual beauty he wore like a second skin.

 

Instead of entering, Jinyoung continued to walk straight past the familiar place. Perhaps he had done something right after all.

  
  


He never really understood why Mark would come all the way to his college to deliver such ridiculing lies to his face like Jinyoung was nothing more than a porcelain doll. He never understood why he interpreted Mark’s straightforwardness to be disingenuous, anyway.

 

But the tattered remains of his guilt still tainted him in more ways than one, and that, too, Jinyoung never understood why.

 

Fake flowers were just a beautiful analogy of lies. They had the appeal to please, but they never died. Artificiality had no roots, only a masquerade forged with the singular motive to deceive while undermining something possibly embarrassing.

 

Fake flowers seemed so real, a near-perfect parroting of reality. Jinyoung sometimes wondered if it were possible to infuse a spark of life in them. If he could derive truth from the plicatures of lies, if only to lie to himself in an infinite paradox, again and again.

 

Whether Mark Tuan truly lied or not could only be up to his imagination. Jinyoung would never wind up knowing.

 

In the end, they were all different embodiments of fake flowers, in their own unique ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mark’s (short) insight in the next chapter


	2. Retour à la case départ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my brain is not so inspired at 3 in the morning, but at the same time, it kinda is? i mean, it wants to write but it's nearing that state of short-circuit,, but ngl tho, writing this was a total chore
> 
> i hope you still enjoy it

Mark was a loser.

Mark knew he was a loser since the first time he’d cheated on his girlfriend, though nothing ever stopped him from spiraling further into this dishonest habit.

In fact, Mark was just a lonely person.

He’d been brought up with company for the entirety of his life, having three siblings, and the addition of his nieces to the family. There was little to no space for him to feel even remotely bored. There was regularly something to do, and someone to do it with.

Mark had always been popular enough to accumulate more than just several friends that could entertain him in his time of needs. Not many of them had been of much importance to him with the exception of a few, and by extension, not many of them had served as real friends to him. They had primarily been there for the sake of just being there, idle or not.

The air was always less stifling when the weight was shared. At least to Mark, it was.

By the same token, Mark was subject to an outrageous amount of reverence, behalf of the girls in his grade as he grew up. His prominence rarely even teetered, and Mark didn’t help its relapse by reinforcing his status as the school’s crowned fuckboy.

He thrived in the company of others, needed it like an ill person would feed themselves on electrolyte drinks. That was to say Mark felt like a deflated balloon without it, utterly depleted.

Adding to his peeve of being left by himself, Mark had been strongly blemished by a stupid sort of romanticism, had always avidly seized the concept of soulmates and true love.

People invariably thought Mark a blasé fuckboy, indifferent to whoever or whatever he slept with. He had never been sure if he could take pride in the transition of priorly having been called _stitched-lips_ to _did you know about that hot girl-magnet sex appeal with the hair like fire?_

All Mark had ever desired, through thick and thin, was a reliable partner to whom he could dedicate his whole life like the sentimental idiot that he was. If the amount of people he had intimate moments with soared to a number beyond reasonable limits, it was positively a result of Mark’s _searching._ For the one, for his soulmate, for the lover he belonged to.

Surely, _searching_ through sex had yet to be the worst solution that ever graced the surface of this Earth, but Mark was willing. In the meantime, he could also satisfy this taut exigency of not being left to his own device.

With the waning of the years spent indefinitely sleeping and _searching_ , the concept of true love had begun to get lost somewhere in the pleats of Mark’s vision. After a while, it became faint and loose, and all that there was left to Mark was a desperate craving for carnal pleasure. An itch to expunge. An itch that was eternal.

Nonchalance hadn’t always been a part of him, but it had slowly crawled into his heart with all the time he’d lost, fruitlessly spent _searching._ Because at some point, he’d started to believe that true love never actually existed.

And from there, Mark’s coarse taste in lies had flourished.

  
  
  


If loneliness was a disease, then Jinyoung was his therapy.

Not that he liked Jinyoung, but the boy proved to be a stark difference to every single soul Mark had taken to his bed.

Mark was used to make people moan, to make their voices crack that wanton note dripping with _want_ and _desire_ . He knew he was good at what he did, and had countless of people confirm it to him by clawing at his back, biting his neck, pulling his hair, calling his name. He was used to people finding themselves at his doorstep by the next day because Mark had given them a reason to. He was used to bend his sleeping partners out of their proportionate shapes when he’d renounce their grand love confession as though they were meant to be. Mark was used to cheating on his girlfriend without feeling the faintest remorse, and had him briefly wonder if he was some unestablished psychopath of sorts. At the end of the day, the girl was back in the States and served more as a  _just in case he had to return_ kind of thing. A total emergency instrument. 

In the beginning, Park Jinyoung was just a faceless body among others, a nobody that Mark simply enjoyed pleasing. He blended in quite well with everyone else, hadn’t been the first to rebuff Mark’s advances by cause of the mistake that was his sexual disease, and certainly wasn’t anywhere near special as Mark had secretly hoped.

But Park Jinyoung did not moan. He didn’t even tug at him hard enough, unless to express his strain.

Park Jinyoung _cried._ Pained tears sizzled around the corner of his eyes, trailed down his cheeks, sparkled loud enough for Mark to notice its glaring, almost mocking, presence.

With the way Jinyoung was breathing like he was going into labor and the downturn of his brows, Mark understood immediately that he wasn’t rejoicing in the erotic bliss Mark was used to exhibit without so much effort.

Where had Mark gone wrong?

Given the predicament, Mark tried harder. He didn’t like to leave impressions that were far from impeccable. He had been dubbed the _stitched-lipped perfectionist_ for a reason, for there was an odd grain of truth somewhere.

Never in his life had Mark entertained thoughts about his notoriety derailing the way that Jinyoung had vastly impaired. The urge to call the boy back to his bed was unremitting, and most particularly insurmountable, and Mark was committed to _change_ things.

But Park Jinyoung still never moaned out in nothing but pleasure. It was always pain.

That was how Jinyoung’s company had commenced to grow on him, a habitual presence, a familiar warmth. And that was how Mark had come to learn that Jinyoung, after it all, was entirely lovable. Even if Mark continuously failed to bring him the post-mortem orgasm he knew Jinyoung all but craved with a shrieking passion.

Jinyoung wielded many qualities that rendered him lovable; he was a good listener, so practiced in that very concern—and Mark knew, for it took one to know one—that he could coax words and rambles out of Mark like he was a leaking waterpipe. He was endowed with the nagging capacities that fit seamlessly with his lazy tendencies. His cuddles were the warmest, tightest, nearest to home. He kissed gently though he was clearly physically hurt. He was diligent where Mark wasn’t—in terms of protection, just as he was in terms of everything else.

The time Jinyoung invested apart from him, Mark found it endless. He’d draw other people home, in the distinct case that he’d recognized something of _Jinyoung_ in them. As he’d reached that realization, Mark grasped that he was screwed, but most importantly, that he was deeply attached.

What had first been Mark trying to prove a point had scaled into Mark trying to _unlove_ someone, if it was even a seizable concept.

Until Jinyoung had ended up by his doorstep, eyes naked of the usual enthusiasm, and had called off their affair.

Never had Mark been more appalled.

Then, he’d understood that he’d lost _something, someone,_ and not just a faceless _anyone._

Still, the anger seethed within him to have his pride so unceremoniously shattered more than once. Jinyoung never floundered at making Mark’s detriment harder to absorb than it was already determined to be.

He never lifted a finger to correct the mistakes he had provoked, and had let Jinyoung leave without a fight.

  
  
  


It was plaguing the back of his mind, biting at his conscience at every waking second of the day, berating him from losing grip on the thing he’d always sought for. The _searching_ had come to an end, unknowingly to him.

So Mark asked Jackson—who seemed to know just about everything in the social orbit—about whichever college Jinyoung had applied to, and cornered the poor boy with success. Nonetheless, he never thought his first time professing his love for someone would collapse into a slump of utter defeat.

Jinyoung was vicious.

  
  
  


With much more rumination, Mark became aware that nothing factually told him that he was in love with Jinyoung.

He was more accurately in love with his company, and the single impulse of delivering even a flake of pleasure to the person who had broken all of his grounds. Ultimately, it was a way to restore his dignity, the preservation of his notoriety that had been, once upon a time before Jinyoung and his oddness happened, intact.

Then again, Mark had much trouble demarcating lies from truth, especially when it came out of his own head.

Fake flowers didn’t have a scent, much similar to the course that Mark did _not_ love.

  
  
  
(Maybe, _just maybe_ , Jinyoung had sparked life within Mark’s fake flower, and had derived from him a kind of love that did not have the time to blossom, quick to shrink, easy to confuse for something that it wasn’t.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it did not explain much, but if i spend another second editing this, i might die
> 
> i'm sorry
> 
> sobs
> 
> (tell me what you think anyway? ;;)

**Author's Note:**

> mark's insight in the next chapter


End file.
